


Quiet on the Mountain

by NYCScribbler



Category: House of Stone and Light - Dartmouth Decibelles (Song)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:00:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5462534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NYCScribbler/pseuds/NYCScribbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's always something to be done, and always something on the horizon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet on the Mountain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlexSeanchai (EllieMurasaki)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieMurasaki/gifts).



It's quiet on the mountain, and that's the way she likes it. Here, she can get away from the never-ending stream of people demanding more from her than even she can give. They're everywhere- they've been everywhere for longer than even she can remember, and they always seek her out, even when the very act of doing so is antithetical to everything that she is. She shouldn't begrudge them that, and yet some small part of herself, the smallest part of _self_ that she reveals to no one, wishes they would leave her alone.

But for now, everything is quiet. She finds the change refreshing. For more years than she can count, she's been a creature of cities: students scurrying from stack to stack in towering university libraries, visitors wandering through museums of ancient things they'll forget as soon as they leave, weathered plaques marking history on old buildings, tattered curtains across stained glass windows, unblinking eyes on eternal watch from rounded street corners, the scratch of chalk against a blackboard, the endless work of countless hands. She's always kept busy.

But there is work to be done here as well. She rises from the simple bed and stretches, letting the sunlight play in wavering beams over her skin. Architecture was never her strength, but she takes pride in the stone house she built so many years ago on the mountain. Many places have been hers, but all of those were given by others. This house is hers by her own deeds, her own own hands. The stones are not uniform, and the mortar is uneven in places. The bedroom window is ever-so-slightly rhomboid instead of square; the floorboards have a small gap near her dresser; the slate tiles of the roof rattle when the wind howls over the mountain.

She cherishes its imperfections.

Today she decides to wear the gray that matches her eyes, a plain shirt and matching pants that will hold up well to the hard work she has planned outside. Like everything else, they're of her own make. She dresses quickly and ties back her dark hair before sticking on a hat to shade her from the glaring sunlight reflecting off the snow-capped mountains in the distance. Woven baskets are always kept by the door, and she takes two or three of them.

She steps outside and takes a deep breath. The air is as cold and crisp as the edge of a good blade. In the foggy distance below, she can make out the outline of the canyon that yawns across the earth, though she can't see into its shadowy depths. She tells herself, as she tells herself every day, that someday she'll go explore it. But today she has other work that needs to be done, and she knows better than to leave it.

She turns away and heads for her garden. Her crops have almost ripened, and she's looking forward to the harvest, to getting her slim hands dirty and to feeling the sweat roll down her noble brow. As much time as she has spent bound to cities and the scholars within them, she's equally comfortable with the tools of the field and farm.

The olive tree, her first and favorite of all the plants she relies on here on the mountain, doesn't give up its bounty without a fight, but that's one of the things they hold in common. She doesn't begrudge it, and she stops when she senses that no more olives will be forthcoming. Her aunt has always had a more innate touch for this sort of thing, but she's had years to learn from experience, and experience is the mother of wisdom.

She pulls some of the aloe leaves, just enough for salves and liniments. She pats the trunks of the rowan and the linden, the cypress and the willow, as she passes them. Aromatic herbs, hardy tubers, lines of wheat and barley, rows of beans and lentils, patches of cabbage- she takes from all of them, carefully, harvesting with care and caution, leaving for the future when she can. It's repetitive work, if not simple, and it clears her mind.

Some days, she uses that clarity to ponder the world outside and the problems that never seem to truly change; oh, they seem different, but it's a new coat of paint on an old structure, the same basic concepts with a modern wrapping. Some days, she considers those commonalities and the differences from era to era, and how a new approach to the same old story might just be what helps solve it.

This is not one of those days. Today, she's content to let her mind be still as she works, savoring the quiet and the comfort of her solitude. There's a serenity to the day- to the blue of the sky, the white of the clouds, the gray of her stone walls, the gold of the sunlight, even the black distance of the canyon far below- that she doesn't want to disturb it with thoughts of the troubled world outside. Sometimes, even she doesn't want to run plans and problems through her head over and over again, not when she's in this place where she can't affect them.

(One of the things she chooses not to think about is the fact that she _has_ withdrawn from the world, when she has the power to make change. There's a lot to unpack there. She's not in the mood today.)

She returns to the house with her bounty, throwing open the shutters in each room to let through the sun until the entire house is filled with light, and stows everything in the kitchen. Everything has its place, and she makes sure that everything goes into its proper place.

It's not until she starts sorting the lentils by size and the beans by color that she realizes she's trying to avoid something. She steadies her hands and steps away from the jars. Something's not right, something's different in the air, something's tugging at the back of her mind, something's driving her back to the edge of the plateau-

She keeps herself from running by sheer strength of will, because she won't be herded like a sheep. But she walks quickly back out, and she looks out to the foot of the mountain. Faintly below, a tiny dot creeps darkly against its slopes. She doubts anyone else would have seen it, but she's always been famed for her keen sight. Someone is out there. Someone's looking for her. Someone has decided to brave the desert, cross the canyon, and climb the mountain, to find answers from her.

She tells herself not to be surprised. It's been too quiet too long. There's always someone who thinks wisdom can be found in the most difficult-to-reach places, that the journey must be difficult and arduous and inconvenient if they're going to learn anything, that they have to go somewhere foreign to figure out the hard truths they've carried with them the whole time. It's the worst form of laziness, one that cloaks itself in a smoke screen of hard work and effort without going to the root of the problem.

(At least this one has the common sense to dress for the climb. Too many of them get their mythologies crossed and try to climb the mountain naked. People with that little foresight don't deserve even the hard wisdom she'd give them.)

She turns away from the edge of her little plateau. There's still time for the stranger to change their mind. There's still work to be done, whether she has a visitor or not. The goat still needs to be milked. The project on the loom still needs to be completed. The house is due for a good cleaning anyway, to put it back in the order she so appreciates, and she tells herself it has nothing to do with whoever it is making their way to her.

She can't lie to herself that long, though. She remembers the laws of hospitality her father laid down to her long ago. Guests are to be treated with respect, no matter how wanted or unwanted they are. By the time the person at the foot of the mountain makes their way to her, the house will be spotless, free of the dust that blows through the windows when the wind howls. She'll put aside her work clothes and don the finery that's expected of her. She'll sit at her loom, and she'll have her spear close to her side, and assuredly at some point during the conversation an owl will fly through the window to land on her shoulder. Her gray eyes will flash as she speaks in a voice thundering like her father's, and the words she speak will be considered gospel.

Maybe this one will be different. Maybe this one will actually do more than just gawk without seeing and hear without listening. Maybe this one will think about her words and put them into action. Maybe this one will be an example to others, someone who considers their actions before they attempt them, someone who can bring wisdom to even the most mundane events of their daily life, someone who can inspire others by simply living well.

Until the mountain is climbed and her visitor arrives, even she doesn't know. Until then, she'll bide her time and take care of her home. She smiles, and the light plays over her face as she closes the door.


End file.
